
WITH THE ARMIES 
OF FRANCE 



WAR POEMS 



By 



WILLIAM CAP.Y SANGER, Jr. 



c^ 



WITH THE ARMIES 
OF FRANCE 



WAR POEMS 



By 



WILLIAM GARY SANGER, Jr. 

AUTHOR OF "TIDES OF COMMERCE," "THE CITY OF TOIL. 
AND DREAMS," "IN THE LAND OF THE HARVEST" 



XLbc Iknicherbocfter press 

NEW YORK 
I9I8 






Copyright, 1917 



WM. CAR',' SANGER. Jr. 



FEB 19 1918 

Ube Itniclsetbocitet preas, Dew ^oclt 

©CI,A4817G3 



With the Armies in France 



Armies of France, advance, 

Forward the line of blue, 

From the Alps away to the channel sea 

Into the battle to make men free. 

Forward, again, to Victory; 

Hail, Armies of France! 

1916. Written in the Field in France. 



REVEILLE 

Dawn — on the fields of Flanders. 
Dawn — on the plains of France, 
A bugle call and a rampart wall 
And a day of sword and lance. 

Bayonet, blood and slaughter, 
Guns that pound and pound, 
Prayer and groan and tortured moan 
In the roar of the battle's sound. 

Dawn — on the fields of Flanders, 
Dawn — on the Marne and the Aisne. 
Free from strife — new homes and life 
Gladden the waking plain. 

* 19 16. Written at .Plattsburg Military Training Camp. 



THE GIFT OF THE WARRIORS^ 

To you we now bequeath that peace 

Which was not ours to know, 

Freedom, security — release 

From dangers of the foe. 

The foreign ranks shall not again 
Burnt cities trample under, 
Nor shall the hosts across the plain 
Sweep with their steel and thunder. 

To you we give that needed rest 

Which was not ours to find ; 

Each night you sleep serenely — blest — 

At peace in heart and mind. 

No longer shall the dull red glow 
Flare in the smoke-dimmed heaven. 
Whose flaming cloud-belts weirdly show 
Where countless hosts have striven. 

' From The City of Toil and Dreams by the same author. 
5 



6 The Gift of the Warriors 

And unto you we give that fame 
Which was not ours to share, 
The glory of a sculptor's name, 
A writer's words of prayer. 

For we had dreamed our glorious dreams, 

Each in his field of knowing, 

But we laid them by — for war's dull gleams, 

The hope of our life foregoing. 

To you we give those hours of love 

That we so early lost, ^ 

For war had called on us to prove 

Our faith — whate'er the cost. 

The joys of home and fireside : 

A woman's soft caresses 

And children's laughter — merry-eyed, 

The love that cheers and blesses. 

And unto you the dawn we give 
Which is not ours to see, 
To you and yours the right to live, 
In thought and action — free. 

To you we give the morning light 

On lake and hillside streaming. 

And flashing on the city's height 

With colors bright and gleaming. 



The Gift of the Warriors 

For you the freedom and the life — 

For us an unknown grave 

After an agony of strife 

That others we might save. 

Yet we rejoice that in our pain, 
Our sacrifice and sorrow, 
We may bequeath to you our gain- 
The everlasting Morrow. 
January, 191 6. 



VERDUN 

Hail, Verdun, rock of immortal France, 
Thy crested forts against the sullen sky 
Stand, through the tumult of the foe's advance 
That thunders at thy gates with savage cry. 
For with the legions of an empire's might 
The enemy has crossed the border lands 
And through the storm of this world-making fight 
Surges about thee with unnumbered bands. 
Again, again they come with shell and steel 
To storm thee, and to crush thy ramparts down 
And trample over France with' iron heel. 
Burning and devastating field and town. 
Yet, day by day, we see thy grim forts stand. 
All hail, Verdun, defender of the land! 

Composed at Verdun, France, January, 191 7. 



FOR THOSE WHO DIED IN FRANCE 

For those who died in France 
By cannon-shell and lance, 
Forget not, friend, to pray 
That they be truly blest 
In their eternal rest 
So far away. 

When here the moonlight dim, 

Through forest branch and limb 

Shall sift in checkered-silver patterns fair. 

The moonbeams also dance, 

In forest groves of France, 

And touch the little silent crosses there. 

And when the sunlight rays 
Shall melt the dawn's dim haze 
And call you to your day of Harvest reaping, 
Remember, all is still. 
For them, on plain and hill : 
They who are sleeping. 
9 



lo For Those who Died in France 

For you the sunlit hours 
Of happiness and flowers 
And music of the dance; 
Yet at the close of day- 
Forget not then to pray, 
For those who died in France. 

Written November, 191 6, just before the author sailed 
for France. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Sunset, the cannonade is dying down, 

And one by one the quiet stars appear. 

The moonbeams silver fort and field and town 

And trace the quiet trenches far and near. 

From somewhere in a town back of the lines 

A chapel bell is calling in the night, 

And high above the hilltop crowned with pines 

The evening star is shining calm and bright. 

It is as though the Angels of the Blest 

Had brought the tired army hosts release, 

A little pause, and time for needed rest 

And thoughts of home and love and heaven's 

peace. 
"Good tidings of great joy" for all tonight. 
In heaven all is peaceful, all is bright. 

Composed in the Field in France, Christmas Eve, 191 6. 



WHEN SUNSET COMES 

When sunset comes, and through each western 

portal 
The rose-light streams through corridors and 

halls 
To cheer the hospital, and each poor mortal 
Within its walls. 

How gladly then we turn our tired faces 
To watch the golden windows of the west, 
Whose streaming light on wall and corner traces 
Visions of rest ! 

Slowly the sunset fades, the shadows lengthen. 
And one by one we watch the stars appear ; 
The quiet evening seems our hopes to strengthen. 
Our hearts to cheer. 

For in the stillness of the moonlit hours 
Refreshing sleep shall come to one and all ; 
Our prisoned souls will find again their powers 
At heaven's call. 



When Sunset Comes 13 

So we shall dream, and all our cares will vanish, 
And we shall find our youth and health again, 
And every fear our happiness shall banish, 
And every pain. 

With hearts as light as children we shall waken 
And wonder why so long they kept us here, 
We who have never even once forsaken 
Those we hold dear. 

So each of us will leave his cot, and turning 
Steal to the door, and tiptoe down the hall. 
Where here and there a light is dimly burning 
Against the wall. 

Then down the big hall stairway to the landing, 
And past the drowsy porter at the door. 
Soon on the moonlit street we shall be standing, 
And free once more. 

Then through the paths of memory and gladness. 
Each to our special happiness and rest. 
Forgotten, then, the shadows and the sadness 
Where all is blest. 



14 When Sunset Comes 

Some to our childhood days, where summer 

flowers 
Border the trout stream sparkling through the 

field 
And leading to the woods, where dreamy hours 
Their pleasures yield. 

And some to find the cottage of our childhood, 
There by the orchard and the farming land, 
Close to the field that borders on the wildwood 
So near at hand. 

With tears of love our father and our mother 
Welcome us home, as in the days long past. 
Brother and sister run to meet their brother 
Returned at last. 

And some of us to find our heart's desire : 
The maiden of our dreams with laughing eyes, 
Welcoming us with love's immortal fire. 
Our dearest prize. 

And some to where the mountain ranges tower, 
And some will turn to greet the glorious sea, 
And each will live through every golden hour 
Immortal, free. 



When Sunset Comes 15 

So each takes up again his life's endeavor, 
Statesman and lawyer, doctor, engineer. 
Moulding our dreams of faith to last forever 
Afar and near. 

Slowly the shadows fade; the dawn, advancing. 
Will bid us to retrace our steps again, 
Away from fields of youthful dreams entrancing 
Back to our pain. 

Back in the dawn to where the open portal 
Takes us again to suffer through the day 
Each in his cot, a prisoner and mortal 
In human clay. 

So in the hospital, through daylight hours 
Sufferers all, we lie in silence there. 
Striving with pain that almost overpowers 
Our strength to bear. 

Till once again the sunset hours returning 
Bring us our rest, and all our cares release, 
With joy we see the evening lanterns burning, 
Beacons of peace. 

For sleep will come again with all its glory, 
The stars again their quiet watch will keep ; 
Forgotten, then, life's battle-tarnished story 
When we shall sleep. 



i6 When Sunset Comes 

No longer will the bayonets be gleaming, 
And hushed will be the tumult of the drums, 
Youthful and free our hearts will turn to dreaming 
When sunset comes. 

Written in the Field in France, 191 7, while in the 
American Ambulance Field Service. 



IT IS THE YOUNG WHO MUST ATONE 

It is the young who must atone, 
Surely the statesmen might have known, 
They who plotted a conquest far, 
And plunged the nations into war; 
Heedless then of the people's voice, 
Deaf to all but a ruler's choice, 
Bending low to a gilded crown 
And a foolish prince's leering frown; 
Surely the statesmen might have known : 
It is the young who must atone. 



Upon the heights of a great gray town, 
Over the harbor looking down 
There stands a house and a terrace fair 
With vines and lilacs drowsing there. 
A little child once used to play 
About the garden — in the day, 
And in the night his dreams would be 
Of the harbor and the glorious sea. 
By day, from the western window panes 
He watched the busy boats and trains; 
17 



1 8 The Young Must Atone 

The line of docks at the waterside 
And the giant ships on the restless tide. 
Beyond the river, buildings high 
Towered into the pale blue sky. 
Spanning the gap from ridge to ridge 
There loomed a great suspension bridge, 
And so before the child there lay 
The harbor and the sunlit bay. 
Some day, when I'm grown up, thought he, 
I'll paint the city beside the sea. 



The child grew up to youth's estate 
There by the nation's deep-sea gate, 
And day by day he learned to draw 
And paint the spirit of what he saw. 
To watch the harbor night and day 
That was his work, his rest and play. 
And all her changing scenes he knew 
Day in and out, the whole year through. 

At times the summer sunlight gave 
Its burnished gold to every wave, 
And flashed on city walls and spires 
And windows with a thousand fires. 
He watched the gorgeous sunset skies 



The Young Must Atone 19 

Bright with a million destinies, 
Flaming in rose and golden hue 
Upon the buildings there in view. 

He knew the winter days — so cold 
That everything seemed gray and old, 
And days of drifting snowflakes white, 
That veiled the harbor boats from sight. 
Or when the sea-fog, low and gray 
Veiled the boats on the sullen bay, 
And rising from the mist on high 
The city's towers sought the sky. 

If in the day 'twas fair to see, 
What of the moonlit majesty : 
The silver rays of slanting light, 
The shadows deep, the calm of night; 
Myriad stars in the sky aglow, 
Lights of boats on the waves below. 
Moving, yellow and red and green, 
Like an enchanted Venice scene ! 

High in the west the moon so bright, 
Silvered the bay with a path of light, 
And now and then across this track 
Of light would pass a shadow black, 
The silhouette of a moving boat. 



20 The Young Must Atone 

A steamer, or a long car-float, 
Couriers they who never sleep 
Bearing the trade of the mystic deep. 

The youth grew up to man's estate. 
No longer now was he to wait 
And watch the toiling harbor vast, 
Now he would paint the scenes at last : 
The busy hours of morning light, 
The magic hours of moonlit night. 

Up in his western study, there 
Were placed five canvases, all bare 
And new, beside the window panes 
Where he could watch the boats and trains. 

These were to be his paintings five 
Showing the harbor, tense alive: 
A dawn in spring, a summer day, 
An autumn sunset on the bay, 
A cold gray winter afternoon, 
And last of all — a night in June, 
The harbor, and the stars, and moon. 
His masterpiece. 



Far away they spoke the word. 
Statesmen had decreed it : 



The Young Must Atone 21 

War — the cannon now is heard, 
Millions march to feed it ; 
Millions in the prime of life 
Down to slaughter going, 
Torn and butchered in the strife, 
Red — blood — flowing . 

War, 

Discordant, 

Grim, relentless. 

Sweeping aside the monuments 

Whose walls were reared 

By centuries of consecrated labor. 

War — blind destroyer of a countless host of men 

Whose youthful lives gave such abundant 

promise 
Of glorious fulfillment : 
Architects, painters, sculptors, writers, inventors, 

statesmen, 
Men whose lives, had they been spared, 
Would have ennobled and enriched humanity, 
And would have made this world 
An infinitely better place in which to dwell ; 
Lives who would have given their contributions 

glorious 
To science and to art. 



22 The Young Must Atone 



Sad at heart, 
Perplexed and troubled, 
The young man followed duty's call 
And joined the army, 
Leaving his work, his hope, his happiness; 
His five unpainted canvases 
Waiting the touch of the Master hand 
Whose magic brush should make them glow 
With life and immortality. 
For he had dreamed to show to all 
The spirit of the harbor, and its glory. 
The soul of all its ships, the wondrous story 
Of its love and hope and striving — 
That was to be his mission, 
His sacred contribution, his message to the 
world. 



The training of the army soon began : 

Weary months of drilling. 

And then, he and a host of others 

Set foot upon the soldier-crowded deck 

Of an army transport moored to a pier 

Along the harbor water front ; 

His harbor, 

The harbor of his youth and hopes and dreams 



The Young Must Atone 23 



At last the hour of departure came, 

The hawsers were cast loose, 

And — almost imperceptibly at first — 

The ship began to move. 

The deep-toned blast of the steamer's whistle 

echoed along the docks 
As she slowly backed out into the river 
And turned her bow to the sea. 

Along the harbor water front, the transport 

steamed, 
Then down the lower bay 
Till she had passed the Narrows 
And was out to sea. 



What of the young man and his dreams ? 
Later his name was on a list 
Reported: "Killed in action." 



How still and mystic is the night ! 

Perhaps it is a night when troubled spirits walk 

abroad 
And seek to cross the silent veil 
Back to their life on earth again. 
How sad and kindly are the stars ! 



24 The Young Must Atone 

How wistfully the moon looks down 
Over the harbor and the town ! 



Is it the window-curtain swaying 

As though the drowsy breeze were playing 

So languidly about the room 

Where shafts of moonlight pierce the gloom ? 

Is it a figure standing there 

Before those five unpainted canvases, 

Those canvases, so new, so bare, 

So dumbly eloquent 

Of that which might have been ? 

The ghostly form now seems to move 

And going to the windows of the west 

Looks out upon the harbor. 

It is a night in June 

And through the drifting clouds on high 

The silver summer moon 

Shines in the sky. 

Sadly the figure turns his gaze 

From one great canvas to another 

Helplessly, imploringly. 



Is it the window-curtain swaying 

As though the drowsy breeze were playing 



The Young Must Atone 25 

So languidly about the room 

Where shafts of moonlight pierce the gloom ? 

Is there a figure slowly leaving, 

Troubled in spirit, sadly grieving? 

Or is it just the moonbeam's light 

Upon the swaying curtains white, 

There in the stillness of the night ? 



It is the young who must atone, 
Surely the statesmen might have known, 
They who plotted a conquest far, 
And plunged the nations into war; 
Heedless then of the people's voice, 
Deaf to all but a ruler's choice. 
Bending low to a gilded crown 
And a foolish prince's leering frown. 
Surely the statesmen might have known 
It is the young who must atone. 

Written in the Field in France, May, 191 7, while in the 
American Ambulance Field Service. 



TAPS 

Rest in sleep — rest in sleep, soldiers of glory, 
All is now hushed on the battle-strewn plain. 
Millions hereafter shall learn of your story. 
You, who have tasted the chalice of pain. 

You who have given your life and its gladness, 
All that you were and were hoping to be. 
Know that from out of the stillness and sadness, 
Life shall awaken eternal and free. 

Over the battle-field, fortress and byway 
Where you so lately have given your all, 
Sunlight and flowers shall gladden the highway, 
Roses and vines shall encircle the wall. 

Take then the rest that to you is now given, 
Sadly the Harvest moon shines in the skies. 
Sleep — and the stars will be sentries in heaven, 
Till the great Reveille bids you arise. 

191 6. Written at Plattsburg Military Training Camp. 



26 



